


Damned Spot

by emynii, ObliObla



Series: Nia & Obli's Whumptober 2019 [22]
Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dreams, F/M, Guilt, Hallucinations, Post-Season/Series 04, Smut, Whumptober 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2021-01-02 22:16:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21168749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emynii/pseuds/emynii, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObliObla/pseuds/ObliObla
Summary: It’s been months since Lucifer left for Hell, but when Chloe kills someone in the line of duty, who is she supposed to turn to for answers?For the Whumptober prompt: hallucination





	Damned Spot

**Author's Note:**

> Additional warnings are in the end notes.

The elevator dinged.

Chloe took a deep breath and stepped out into the penthouse. Drop cloths covered the furnishings and she remembered, vividly, the last time she’d seen it like this, the first time Lucifer had left. But he’d gone somewhere so much further away than Vegas this time, and weeks had long since turned to months suffused with a cruel chill that had nothing to do with the weather.

There were already tears falling as she rounded the bar, picking up a half-filled bottle of one of his favorite whiskeys and a glass a little cloudy with dust. She blinked at the glass and set it back down, opening the bottle instead, taking a swig, wondering if his lips had touched its mouth. All she tasted was ash, but she carried the bottle with her anyway, tearing the heavy cloth from the piano and settling on the bench. She lifted the fallboard, ran her fingers over the keys, and pressed a chord into it at random.

It was dissonant; the piano needed tuning.

She hit the chord again, harder, making it echo in the silence, and took another drink. The taste of soot remained but the heat of fire had come, and she let it burn on her tongue and down her throat. 

Nausea rose, and she dropped the bottle, pushing away from the piano and stumbling from the bench, breathing hard. He was everywhere in this place, surrounding her and suffocating her with the strength of his vacant presence. She had never asked, not about the books or the art, not the reliefs etched into the walls or the writing on the stone columns, not even when she had finally known. And now she was the only witness to all these centuries shelved away and trapped behind glass.

The hearth on the balcony was dark and lifeless.

And of course it was, of course the torch sconces held nothing but shadows, but some part of her thought it essentially wrong for the flames to have died while he was still living, still breathing. Just not _ here_. And she wanted to curse him for not being here, for choosing to leave her. It _ had _ been a choice and, while he may have made it with difficulty, it was willingly done.

Too filled with anxious energy, needing something to do with her hands, she walked past all the books and art, heading down, scouring rooms she’d never seen before, finally discovering something of a supply closet with a cache of firewood. She lugged the wood up the short staircase and out the balcony doors, dumping it in the stonework inlaid with Assyrian or Sumerian or… whatever it was that she had also never asked about.

So much she had never asked.

The search for a lighter was simpler—she found plenty under the bar, and picked up the whiskey again from where she’d left it by the piano. She poured a good measure over the wood and set it alight, sending something like a prayer with the smoke. _ I miss you _ and _ I wish I could be with you. _

She had no fancy words, but she knew that their most important moments were simple. So she closed her eyes and pressed her palms together, breathing in the smoke, and tried to focus her thoughts.

_ I love you. I love you. I love you. _

She shivered a bit in the sea breeze and returned to the penthouse proper, settling onto the bed, already feeling the weariness in her bones that rarely left her these days.

She took a drink and let the other feelings come, the ones so much harder than sadness. The fear, lurking just under the surface. The frustration, that they had finally, _ truly _ come together, only to be torn apart again. And the anger, at everything they could have had, at everything they’d never have. It slid against her skin, nearly comforting in its abrasiveness, as hot and fierce and exhilarating as she imagined he would feel in all the glory of his hellish form. The rage ignited flames in her heart but they were quenched anew in the sorrow and the bitter hope that lay in stillness under the surface.

She sniffed, pulling her hair loose from its knot. She hadn’t known what she was going to do when she’d made up her mind to come. Break things, maybe. Scream and sob and keen like a banshee heralding the death of love and all the light in the world—for he was the Morningstar and the stars burned so much more dimly without him.

But none of the emotions could seize a real hold, and she found herself too numb for them, too practical, too knowing that life would go on and time, that cruel, implacable bastard, would continue to run. That there would be joy without him; that there would still have been sorrow had he stayed.

And it was this thought, perhaps, that hurt most of all. That she had been offered such tragedy in wings and blood and fire, but had turned her back on its grandeur, left only the mundanity of her normal human existence. But she had to. After all, Trixie needed her mom, the bills needed to be paid, the dead needed justice.

And, with every person who died, she’d wonder if he would see them. When murderers got off easy—or entirely—she wondered what torment he’d have planned when celestial judgement ensnared them in a net so much more inexorable than human law, and it sickened her and heartened her in equal measure.

And today… she had killed a man, one she knew felt guilt, and it didn’t matter that he’d forced her hand because she’d _ chose _ to put that bullet in his chest. There would be no sweet redemption for him, and no warm oblivion either, just Lucifer, on a throne that grew more grotesque and grand both each time she thought of it, meting out the punishment that was his duty and his purpose. She settled on the edge of the mattress and, though it had been months, imagined she could still catch the notes of his cologne and the soft smoke and heat of his flesh.

This man she had killed… In his hell-loop, would _ she _ be there? Her desperate act of self-preservation just another memory, another tool in the torturer’s belt? The torturer, who she loved.

And now she sat in the torturer’s bed, made up in gold sateen, the bedspread still parted in gentle invitation. She buried her face in her hands and blessed and cursed the comfort she felt. She _ had _ accepted him, all of him, the light and the dark and all those nebulous shades in between. But that had been when he’d been _ here, _ with her. And now she was left alone with consequences without actions, questions without answers. Shadow without substance. Everything had made more sense when they were together; now that they weren’t, all those whispers in her head turned to screams.

“And what if _ I _ feel guilty? What am I supposed to do?”

The room refused to answer her.

She saw the throne room again, some twisted amalgam of Lux and all those illustrations she had made herself trust in, when she hadn’t known if she could trust anything else. A swirl of beautiful grotesqueries lost in torturous revelry as he held court. And she was there too. Beside him, smiling; before him, groveling. Uncertain of her place and, as always, unsure where she stood.

“I know you left for a reason, but…” She took a deep breath. “I just want to see you. Is that so bad?”

The serenity of the dust mocked her again.

She’d been so tired, recently. Headaches, from stress and everything else, and she found herself drifting off at work, staring at the seemingly endless paperwork. It had been so quiet at the apartment. Maze had left town months ago on a series of increasingly difficult bounties. Chloe couldn’t blame her, but with Linda and Amenadiel so busy with Charlie there wasn’t much time to talk about what had happened.

No one else really understood, after all.

She sighed, falling back against the sheets. They were cool and still smelled just a bit like him. She turned onto her side, curled into a ball, and slept.

* * *

The light was hazy and unsure, flames leaping from the fireplace to lick up the stone columns before turning within themselves into a cold, blue light that only served to further highlight the darkness. The bed was a vast continent and all the marble floors the boundless sea, cold and unforgiving.

And he stood there, amidst the maelstrom of color, steady and unmoving.

“_Lucifer _…” But the word was lost to the cacophony of waves breaking, of fires cracking, of the darkness echoing with whispers and screams.

And he watched her, still and motionless, surrounded by chaos, formed from its substance, yet apart from it. His unblemished flesh split into fire and raw muscle as his bones pulled up through his form. Wings emerged, first crimson and leathern, then feathered and white, then rent between celestial and infernal. But his eyes, red or black or sparking gold and white in a kaleidoscope where she felt she might see his very soul, were fixed inexorably on hers and she couldn’t look away.

She didn’t want to look away.

The refulgence blazed through her nerves with a pleasurable agony and she wanted to brave that unformed stone sea, surmount its wave-shards and arise from the dust foam, alighting on his welcoming shore.

“Chloe, I—”

And she woke, panting and confused, with his name on her lips and shivers wracking her body. The blanket and half the pillows were on the floor and she picked them up in a daze, imposing order in the only way she could. She pulled her shoes back on and half-ran to the elevator.

At work, relegated to desk duty for the foreseeable future, she stared into the depths of her fourth coffee of the day. Her head was pounding, and all she wanted was to rest it on the cool surface of her desk and sleep. She sighed and retrieved another file, sniffling a little, thinking she might be getting a cold.

She frowned, sniffing again. It almost smelled like…

She whipped her head around, eyes darting between the other people in the room. Lucifer wasn’t there. Of course he wasn’t.

She must have been imagining the smell of his cologne.

* * *

A few weeks passed and IA cleared her, but it did nothing to alleviate Chloe’s guilt. Lucifer’s occasional nighttime visits were the only break in the bleak monotony of sleeplessness and paperwork. The dreams weren’t exactly pleasant, but he was _ there _and he was with her and, if she tried hard enough, he almost felt real. But whenever he tried to talk, she would wake, and she would be alone. The headaches had gotten worse. Stress, she was sure, from dealing with the fallout of the shooting.

She hadn’t returned to the penthouse since that night, couldn’t bring herself to.

Trixie was gone for the weekend, and Chloe was cleaning the kitchen. She scrubbed at the countertops; there was a spot she just couldn’t manage to scrub clean. She took the sponge to it harder, leaning her weight into it, until pain shot through her hand, and she realized the suds were tinged red.

She hissed, the ache catching up to her, and dropped the sponge, heading to the sink. She turned on the water, rinsed off the scrape on her palm. Sighing, she turned away, toward the living room.

And a man was standing by the bar, staring at her. _ The _man. The man she’d killed. Blood slowly soaked into his shirt, blooming out from the bullet wound in his chest. He pressed his fingertips to the wound, and they came away red and dripping as he reached for her.

“Why?” he whispered.

“You-you were gonna kill me. I _ had _ to—”

“You didn’t!” the man yelled suddenly, taking a step closer.

But her legs were frozen and she could only stammer, “No, I-I… It was me or you. It was...”

“You still had a _ choice!” _ And he grabbed her, slamming her against the bar. She scratched at his hands, but he wouldn’t stop. She couldn’t… she couldn’t—

“Detective?”

And the man disappeared, like he was glitching out of reality. Chloe’s head throbbed, and she reached for her forehead. But someone had said something, hadn’t they?

Someone whose voice was strangely...

“Lucifer?” she breathed. He was standing in the living room looking just as he always did, concern in his eyes. She blinked. She blinked again. He didn’t disappear like the man had.. “You-you’re back. You’re... real?”

“Yes,” he said softly.

She walked forward as if she were in a trance, standing in front of him, looking up at his face. The man she’d killed wasn’t real; how could Lucifer…?

He reached out to touch her cheek like he had when he left, wiping away a tear from under her eye. He felt so solid, so much like he always did.

She hadn’t truly believed she’d ever see him again. She wavered on the spot, and he stepped forward and caught her. She buried her face against his chest. He was real. He was real. He was _ real. _

After a long moment, where she tried to catch her breath, clinging to his shirtfront, she pulled away, though only enough to meet his gaze. “I-I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

He pressed their foreheads together like he barely believed it either, seemingly lost for words.

“How are you_ here?” _ she asked, quietly, as if shattering the stillness might make him disappear, so much did this still feel like a dream.

“I can’t stay,” he said, looking pained now. “I just couldn’t bear...” He brushed a strand of hair from her face, hands framing her cheeks, and she wrapped her arms around him. She was crying in earnest, now, but she couldn’t make herself stop.

“I won’t let you go.”

“Detective…”

She took a breath. “Stay here with me.”

“I _ can’t_.”

“I…I _ killed_…”

“I know.” And there was a strange weight to his words. He closed his eyes and sighed. “I came because I wanted to…” But he didn’t seem able to finish his sentence.

She sniffed. “I-I keep seeing him. And then he—” She inhaled sharply. “I feel like I’m going crazy.”

“Shh, just breathe.” He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, taking her weight.

She choked on a sob. “I just… If I hadn’t…”

“You might have died instead,” he told her softly.

“I-I know, but— What if I still feel guilty?” she whispered.

He didn’t seem to know what to say to that, simply holding her close, being there. And even though he had no answers, his presence helped. Everything made so much more sense. They stood there, together, for several minutes, before he finally pulled away, pressing a kiss to her brow.

“Don’t tell anyone,” he said softly. “I’m not supposed to be here.”

“I…” She saw Maze’s anger, saw Linda’s fear, saw Amenadiel’s resignation. 

_ “Please,” _ he whispered.

And she couldn’t deny him. “Are you…? Can you come back?”

Sorrow passed over his face. “I don’t know.”

She sniffed, wiping at her face. “Please try. For-for me?”

He nodded. “For you,” he said, and disappeared in a rustle of feathers.

* * *

Chloe sat in prayer every night, now, not certain if her words would reach Lucifer, but unwilling to not try. There were so many questions she still had, so many things she wanted to know, but wasn’t sure how to ask.

The man she’d killed continued to haunt her dreams—such as they were with how bad her sleep had gotten—and the quiet times when her mind drifted and she lost the thread of the present. But he hadn’t been able to do more than stand and stare since Lucifer had come to chase away the nightmares.

It had been a few weeks, and she was beginning to lose hope, again, even though she knew that he would do anything to come back to her. He’d promised, and he didn’t break his promises.

She sat on the couch in her empty house, head throbbing, as it often was these days, hands clasped, eyes shut, not certain which direction to look. The man she’d killed had not come today, and yet, still, guilt tore at her insides. “Is this—?” She exhaled roughly “Is this some sort of punishment for what I… for what I’ve done?”

And there were hands framing her face, brushing away her tears. “Shh... It’s alright, love.”

Her eyes shot open. “Lucifer, you-you’re back.”

“I am,” he confirmed, setting on the couch next to her. He had a gash on his palm, and he sighed. “Bloody infernal bastards.”

“Are you…?”

He gestured vaguely with his uninjured hand. “I’ll be fine.”

She bit her lip. “How long do we have?”

“An hour? I really shouldn’t be here at all, but…” He looked away. Guilt, she realized. She was more than familiar with it herself these days.

She shook her head and laid her hand on his knee. He looked up at her sharply, and she made herself smile. “You’re here, now, though.”

He nodded, weariness passing over his face. “Things have been… chaotic, to say the least. I…” He closed his eyes for a brief moment, before opening them. “I have missed you,” he said softly.

“I missed you too. Lucifer, it’s been six months since...” They hadn’t had time, before, to really talk.

“Only that?” he asked, and she could see, now, the weight of time that separated them.

“How…how long has it been for you?”

He looked away again, before refocusing on her. “Detective…”

“How long?” she asked insistently.

“Just… a few centuries.”

“A few…” She gaped at him.

“But enough about that,” he dismissed, grimacing, trying to redirect the conversation like he always did. “You’ve not been sleeping. Your prayers—”

“You _ can _ hear them.”

He nodded. “But you mustn’t feel so much guilt. It... it will drag you down to Hell.”

She bit her lip. She knew that was what the dreams had been about, but now Lucifer was really here. “I suppose if I do go to Hell, at least I’ll see you there." 

And none of the pain she’d seen him in before was anything like the agony that flitted across his face. _ “Don’t,” _ he said roughly.

“But—”

“You are a good person, Chloe. When you…” He hissed in a breath. “You’ll go to Heaven. You’ll be happy there.” He barely seemed to believe it himself.

“You’ve never had anything good to say about it.”

“Yes, well…” He chuckled bitterly. ”It _ is _a paradise, for most. Well, when my self-righteous, feathery siblings aren’t yammering on, at least.”

She leaned her head against his shoulder. “But what if I don’t want to.”

“You’ll have your family there,” he said, almost harshly. “Your mother and father, Beatrice—”

“Not you,” she said sharply, pulling away to look up at him again.

“No,” he admitted softly.

She shook her head roughly, feeling nausea rise for a moment, but Lucifer was warm and solid against her cheek when she settled again. “I guess we should make the best of the time we have, then.” And she pressed a kiss to his shoulder.

* * *

Lucifer visited when he could, in evenings when Trixie was at Dan’s, rarely for longer than an hour. Sometimes, when he had a little more time, he would cook for her. “We never did manage to actually _ complete _ a date,” he’d tell her, tying the ‘kiss the cook’ apron around his waist that she’d never managed to bring herself to throw away. And they would drink wine, and laugh, and she would mute all calls save emergencies, afraid, now, of wasting any more time.

And sometimes they would simply sit on her couch and talk about Heaven and Hell, at least, as long as he could stand it. They’d also talk about guilt, regret, repentance.

The man who she’d killed stopped coming so often, and then at all, and the headaches got better. Her sleep improved too, though she still had nightmares, sometimes. Guilt, it seemed, had already been dragging her down.

This visit was one of the quieter ones, only the two of them, hand-in-hand, sipping wine, sitting on her couch. They had kissed, a few times, unwilling to stay away, but it had gone no further. He had so little time, and something in her was afraid of breaking the pattern they had set, like everything might fall apart if she tried to strive for more.

Soon, though, they forgot the wine, and she slipped into his lap as they kissed, her knees on either side of his legs, but, still, slow and careful as a dream. She deepened their kiss, shivers running down her spine, grounding herself in the moment, in _ him. _ He groaned against her mouth, and she bit his lip.

But then he stopped her, untangling them until they were sitting side by side. “I-I have to go,” he panted, but he didn’t get up, hand still pressed to her hip, warmth radiating from the contact.

Everything in her pulsed with her frenetic heartbeat, with the heat between her legs, with the joy and the sorrow and the agony. _ “Please,” _ she asked, unable to do more than whisper.

He glanced between her and somewhere she couldn’t see, that place he saw when he told her of his past. “I _ can’t.” _

She took his hands in hers. “If this is all we have…”

“I want to,” he said, voice hushed, like this was something sacred, “but the demons _ must _ be contained.”

“I know,” she said, feeling her heart break all over again. “I just…”

He stared down at their clasped hands, jaw clenching. “I suppose... one night couldn’t hurt.”

She brought his hands up to kiss his knuckles, trying to smooth away everything besides _ them, _besides this moment, waiting until he relaxed before asking, “What do you desire?”

He shook against her. “You,” he admitted quietly.

“Then come here.” She slipped sideways on the couch, and he rose, setting over her, bracing his weight on the edge of the cushions.

He kissed her again, a little roughly, like he was already reveling in the freedom of this. But there was still guilt on his face, and she hooked her leg up over his hip and sank her fingers into his hair, pulling him closer, trying to wash away his worries, hoping he could wipe away hers in return.

He moaned against her lips when she ground up against him. “Chloe, _ Chloe...” _ he panted. 

It was somewhat awkward as he shuffled backward to press kisses down down her neck, reaching to unbutton her pants, and everything was a little fast—and how ironic that was when it had been so long, so very slow.

She tugged at his jacket, pulling it from his shoulders and he paused for long enough to shake it off his arms. He was so warm, and she teased his hair into curls as he leaned back down to nuzzle against her shirt.

They were both wearing far too much clothing, and, when he tried to pull off her shirt and they both ended up tangled up in it, she pushed him back. “Bed,” she said breathlessly.

He nodded fervently and stood, tugging her up into his arms. They stumbled up the stairs, into the bedroom, kicking off their shoes and tumbling onto the bed next to each other with a shared laugh.

She had dreamed of this, of his hands, clever and strong, of his lips at the hollow of her throat, of the stilted reverence of his breathing.

His nails caught gently against her as he stroked down her back, panting turning to a deep hum that slipped against her skin with a warm rush.

“Is this okay?” he asked quietly.

She leaned up, pressing her lips to his before grinning. “Shut up, Lucifer.”

He was smiling when he kissed the line of her jaw, and the world fell away. She unbuttoned his shirt while he nosed down her neck, parting the fabric of her blouse to lay a gentle bite on her collarbone. He pulled her on top of him, sitting up as he removed his shirt and she removed her own.

She arched her back when her heat met his, and traced his ribs back to his spine, drawing her palms down to trail along his waistband. He hummed against the edge of her bra before reaching to unfasten it. and she pressed closer to undo his belt. 

He tangled a hand in her hair and she groaned, hips jerking against his, pulling his head up to lick into his mouth. His eyes were nearly black from arousal, and she felt she might drown in them, riding a wave of pleasure destined to break over her shore. 

She was desperate, suddenly. They both were, parting just enough to yank off their pants and socks until they were bare, staring at each other from inches away, like she imagined it might have been in the garden. And she was not ashamed.

The ache between her legs was stronger, now, thrumming with her pulse. She felt like she might shatter if he touched her, but his hands on her waist brought only pleasure as he pressed her into the mattress, poised above her.

“Please. Lucifer,” she asked, breathing roughly. She felt an instance of fear, then, that he’d disappear before they could have their chance. Like it was asking too much of the universe to give them this one moment. 

But then he guided himself inside, and everything stopped. And there was an eternity between when he first pressed close and when their hips were brought flush. She bucked up into him, clenching, scrambling at his back, every part of her needing to be as close as possible. 

And his eyes were closed, like this moment had wrecked him, like this was what true holiness was. And then his lashes fluttered, and their gazes locked, and there was only joy.

He rocked slowly, at first, his hips rolling to gently grind, and every time he reached the verge she swore she saw the stars. 

But it wasn’t enough. She wrapped her legs around his to urge him faster, and he sped up, the bed squeaking just a bit from the motion. She was saying something, jumbled syllables caught in her throat as he pressed deeper and deeper.

And then his free hand trailed down her body, rubbing where they were joined, and her hips jerked, meeting his thrusts. And she was at the edge. And she was falling, pulling him after her.

When she came back to herself, he’d pressed their foreheads together, whispering against her lips.

_ ”I love you. I love you. I love you.” _

She fell asleep wrapped in his arms, and, when she woke, he was still there, brushing hair from her face.

“Good morning,” she mumbled, stretching a little.

“And a good morning to you, too, Chloe,” he said with a salacious grin she hadn’t even realized she’d missed, turning them so he could press a kiss to her lips.

She flushed as he kissed down her neck to her shoulders, her arms, such ardency in his gaze her breath caught. "I have to get up," she said breathlessly, tangling her fingers in his hair as he knelt, though not trying to push him away. “Trixie will be… _ Oh_…”

He chuckled. "She’s not here yet."

She hummed low in her throat as he nuzzled against her hip. Maybe it could wait five minutes...

"Mom?" Trixie asked from outside the bedroom door. She must’ve been early, or maybe Chloe was losing time again. She shook her head to try to clear it.

"Yeah, baby?" she asked, pushing Lucifer aside properly now, getting her breathing under control.

"Dad says he needs you to sign something?"

"Go handle your offspring and Daniel," Lucifer whispered. 

Right. _ Right, _ she just needed to—

Trixie pushed the door open. "Are you okay?"

And, in a whisper of wings that was growing increasingly familiar, Lucifer disappeared. And Chloe was left, strangely tired now, staring at her daughter. "Yeah, yeah, of course I am. I’ll be downstairs in a sec.”

Trixie nodded and left, throwing a worried look behind her, but Chloe was fine. No one else could know, she reminded herself. But it was getting harder to pretend.

* * *

“I got you something,” Lucifer said as they lay in bed, still intertwined, relaxing in the haze of the afterglow. He’d been able to come more often, recently. The rebellions were finally calming down, he’d said. He thought he might be close to a permanent solution. _ Then I won’t have to leave anymore, _ he’d whispered against her neck.

“Yeah?” Chloe raised her head to look at him, then let it drop back to his shoulder. The headaches had been getting worse again. Since being cleared by IA, she’d been put back on regular rotation. But she didn’t have a partner anymore and the workload had gotten, frankly, ridiculous.

He reached off the side of the bed, lifting something that was hanging from a chain. It was a locket, old and intricate, like something that might’ve been kept behind glass at the penthouse.

“What is this?” she asked, taking it when he offered. The metal was cold under her hands, but it soon warmed, and she ran her thumb over the face of it.

“For when I can’t be with you. It’s… a part of me that can.”

She unclasped the locket and gasped aloud when a single miniscule fluffy feather drifted to land on his chest. When she reached down to take the feather between her fingertips, she found it warm, heated from within. So, too, did it shine with its own light. “I-I don’t know what to say,” she stammered.

“Say you’ll keep it with you always,” he pleaded with her, arm tightening around her shoulders.

She stowed the feather back into the locket before pressing her hand against his heart, feeling it beating steadily, if a little rapidly. “Of course. Of course, I will.” She pulled the chain over her head, the locket coming to rest beside the bullet.

He smiled, pulling her further onto him, and kissed her head, her brow, her cheek, like his lips could erase all her pain. She almost believed it could.

* * *

A few months passed. Lucifer came almost every night, now, if only for a few minutes, sometimes. Work was getting more and more tiring. Something _ had _ to give.

One morning Chloe was getting ready for work, frowning at her somewhat sallow complexion in the mirror, when, with a _ whoosh _ of wings, Lucifer appeared behind her. “You’re early!” she said, turning to pull him down for a kiss. But when they parted her frown deepened. He’d _ never _ been this early.

But he was smiling, so wide as to be blinding. “I am.” He shook with barely contained excitement. “I figured it out.”

She blinked. “You…?”

He nodded vigorously and swept her into his arms, and, while nausea rose and her head throbbed, she pushed both down in her joy.

“I solved it!” he crowed.

She grinned. “So you can stay?”

He kissed her, then, lips and cheeks and brow, and didn’t seem to be able to stop. “I can stay,” he said breathlessly.

She bit her lip, paralyzed with choice for a moment. She wanted to call in, to say she couldn’t _ possibly _ go to work today, but… they had all the time in the world, now, right? They had the rest of her life. “Do-do you want to go to work with me?”

He set her back down on the ground. “Yes, I would like that _ very _ much.”

And she offered him her hand, leading them down the stairs, out the front door. She saw him in the sunlight for the first time since he’d left for Hell, and he almost glowed with it. _ Light bringer, _ something whispered in her mind. They got in the car, and, unable to be even that distance apart, clasped hands. As she drove them to the crime scene, their entwined fingers rested in the central console, and, for the first time in nearly a year, she was looking forward to work.

Dan was already there, taking witness statements, and she was a bit concerned about how he might react to Lucifer, considering everything that had happened. But she was, frankly, too happy to be that worried about it. He saw them as they got out of the car, and came over to join them. His expression was neutral; she breathed an internal sigh of relief.

She wanted this to go as smoothly as possible.

“Hey, Chlo,” he greeted, still looking at his notepad. “Dominic Price, thirty-six, according to the guy’s ID.”

“Right…” Chloe glanced over at the corpse; stabbed to death, it seemed. “So, uh, are you two gonna have a problem?”

Dan blinked and looked up at her. “A problem with what?”

She frowned—why was Dan being so _ weird? _ “Well, Lucifer’s gonna be back on cases with—”

_ “Lucifer’s _ back?” Dan asked blankly. 

She blinked rapidly, head throbbing, and reached out for Lucifer’s hand to drag him forward, even though Dan should have been able to see him already. But instead of finding his warm stability, her hand passed through his. "What?" She blinked at her hand, at his.

He only shook his head.

"Chlo, what is going _ on?” _

"No, no, _ no…” _ The feather! She could always show him the feather even if Lucifer had gone all... ghosty. That was a thing, right? It _ could _ be a thing—how should she know? She scrambled for the locket he'd given her, for the small, fluffy feather contained within.

She loosened the clasp and pried the thing open. 

It was empty.

"No, this isn't... I-I can't..." Her head was pounding harder, now, and nausea rose. She fell to her knees, choking on bile, but Lucifer wasn't there as he had been, before, when she’d been afraid, brushing the hair from her face, whispering words of comfort. No, there was only Dan, hands shaking as he tried to steady her arms, while Lucifer just kept standing there, eyes ancient and dark.

"Lucifer, please. _ Please _ just..." Another shake of the head. Light was flashing over Chloe's vision. What was going on?

"This isn't... this isn't..."

Dan was talking but she couldn't understand anymore. Couldn't look at anything but Lucifer, only feet away, but so, _ so _far, watching her in her pain and her fear, doing nothing.

And then he disappeared, not in a flash of feathers, but jagged and glitchy, like the man who she’d shot had.

She was unconscious before her head hit the concrete.

* * *

The machines beeped steadily in the quiet room. There was something sterile to the sound, as there always seemed to be in hospitals.

Dan didn't remember the name of the doctor, and her calm demeanor made him want to punch things. "The tumor’s pressing against the temporal lobe," she said. "The insomnia, the headaches, the nausea, the hallucinations..."

Dan nodded roughly.

"We're not sure if we'll be able to operate. We'll have to do more tests." 

He cleared his throat, feeling numb. "Thank you, Doctor," he heard himself say. She left the room. He glanced over at the bed; Chloe could have been sleeping if not for the tubes sticking out of her arm, the mask over her face. _ There's no way you could have caught it in time, _ the doctor had told him. But how could he believe that?

How could he believe there was nothing they could have done?

And what was he supposed to tell Trixie?

**Author's Note:**

> Additional warnings: Police involved shooting, tumors
> 
> "A hallucination is a fact, not an error; what is erroneous is a judgment based upon it."  
—Bertrand Russell


End file.
